<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the snow grows from the ground up by Kt_fairy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155189">the snow grows from the ground up</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy'>Kt_fairy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Angst and Feels, Fix-It, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-Worth Issues, Victorian Attitudes, jfj has a terrible bad no good time</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:28:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p> The Arctic would allow him to show who he really was. That he was not just another war hero. Britain had a surfeit of those, and James knew he had to be more than that to be worth anything at all.</p><p> James turned to the list of officers of the expedition, and found himself to be wilfully envious of every one of them. Crozier most of all. He seemed a stalwart sort, and James wished he could have seen that feat of sailing HMS Terror between those bergs. What daring! What seamanship! What an example of the steely composure and calm duty expected of an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy!</p><p> He opened the pages he had been reading, letting his eyes flick over the dauntless, determined actions contained there and wished some of that for himself. He wanted to live that freely, just once.</p><p> </p><p>OR</p><p>5 times James gets Francis Crozier Adjacent Jealousy, and one time that it's Francis' turn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the snow grows from the ground up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Allow me once again to heap innumerable praise and gratitude and adoration on MsKingBean, who always knows what a story needs, every time, even if though makes my word count rocket. </p><p>(And thanks to norvegiae, who enabled me by saying this concept sounded intriguing.)</p><p> </p><p>The title is a riff on a quote from "Moominland Midwinter".</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>“You can’t ever be really free if you admire somebody too much, I know.”</em><br/>
<em> – Tove Jansson, Tales From Moominvalley.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> 1.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“And then, by the kindness of old Neptune himself, the masts came apart with a great <em> heave </em> of the seas,” James said with an expansive swoop of his arm which had his audience squirming in excitement. “But! Two huge bergs of <em> glimmering </em> ice were close at hand, and shipwreck and churning icy ruin seemed close at hand! Which - I know, it’s awful perilous! - yet, the captain of <em> HMS </em> … <em> HMS Terror </em> reacted how any naval captain should, and he took the chance that the gap between those bergs was sufficient to sail his great vessel right through, and would you know it…!”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you exciting the children again, Fitz?”</p><p> </p><p> James’ attention snapped to the slight figure standing unobtrusively in the doorway, his audience burbling away as James took in the dark circles under pale blue eyes and the badly combed nature of his always unruly black hair. James made a point of putting a natural, pleasant smile on his face as he set the book he had been reading from down upon his knee, trying not to make too much of a fuss about William being up and dressed on a Monday afternoon. </p><p> </p><p> He had been ‘unwell’ these past weeks. The melancholy that had affected him since their childhood keeping him silent and lethargic and prone to weeping, and gave the atmosphere in the Brighton house a fragile, fractious edge that James felt was lifted just by seeing his dear brother chance some lightness of manner.</p><p> </p><p> “I was requested to read the tale, was I not Lizzie?” James asked the infant who laughed in delight at being addressed, giving her rattle such a vigorous shake of agreement that she dropped it. "Ah. Maybe she has become somewhat excited."</p><p> </p><p> William stepped into the room, the exhaustion that laced his whole demeanour slipping away as he gazed down at his daughter who was laid out in her unfussy wooden cradle. James watched him a moment, then bent to pick up the rattle, wiping it on his trouser leg before placing it back into a tiny reaching hand</p><p> </p><p>"She is fond of her godfather," William observed as he ran his hand over her wispy brown hair.</p><p> </p><p>"I am noises and forms to her, and quickly forgotten," James said as he sat back down, touching his hair to make sure it was still neat.</p><p> </p><p> “She has fine taste in stories then, and in the style of telling," William shot James a raised eyebrow as he hitched up the front of his tan trousers and dropped heavily into the chair beside him. "Even if it might give her an unreasonable passion for the sea."</p><p> </p><p>“No such thing, is there, dearest?" James asked, and Lizzie gummed wordlessly at her rattle in reply.</p><p> </p><p> William gave James a look but said nothing. He had already voiced his opinions on James’ wish to go back to sea - either to the north or back to the east, James did not mind which - in very blunt terms on more than one occasion, and the silence that fell was threatening to become uncomfortable when William finally spoke.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you reading to her?"</p><p> </p><p>“A pamphlet on the expedition just back from the Antarctic regions,” James said as he held up the cover for William to see.</p><p> </p><p>“I did not realise that it had already returned?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, the Admiralty has released an account of it," James turned the booklet around to inspect the front himself. "So I should hope so."</p><p> </p><p>"We were rather busy looking for that ship <em> Clio </em>in the notices," William quipped, chancing his first genuine smile in weeks as he leant his cheek on his fist and looked at James.</p><p> </p><p>"I wonder why!" </p><p> </p><p>"Couldn't tell you for the life of me," William murmured, holding out his pale hand for the booklet.</p><p> </p><p> James handed it to him, and as William flicked through the pages James bent to play catch with little Lizzie's socked feet that she was kicking against her blankets.</p><p> </p><p>"What is your fascination with this place?" William sighed not unkindly. "Why to the ice when your life has always been turned eastwards?"</p><p> </p><p>"I could tell you about the purity of nature and the power of the seas," James said as he sat back in his chair in an ungentlemanly sprawl.  "Or the lack of violence towards our fellow man. But I am afraid it is the adventure of it."</p><p> </p><p>"Of course it is," William shook his head and handed the booklet back to James. "Father always said that he knew from your boyhood you would lose yourself to it.”</p><p> </p><p>“But to see a new thing entire, Will! To be the first man to stand in a place, does that not thrill you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I understand...”</p><p> </p><p>“To benefit science and knowledge also. And the empire!”</p><p> </p><p> William hummed disinterestedly, stretching out his leg to knock the cradle with his foot so it began to rock gently. “If you are posted to an expedition we shall support you, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>"And you are always welcome here, Fitz,” William said, settling a look on James that was so like his mother's straightforward affection. “For who you are, and nothing more."</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” James nodded, shooting William what he knew was a tight smile as he smoothed out the pages of the Antarctic booklet. </p><p> </p><p> Ever since James had heard of George Back’s overland expedition of 1834 he had wished for his career to take him towards adventure. Wished dearly that the Admiralty had allowed him to go South with Ross and face all the noble perils that this booklet laid out, rather than send him to the stifling heat of Syria or the foul waters of China.</p><p> </p><p> James had seen glory there of course, had been promoted and given a command, and had acted without fear because what else could anyone do in the chaos of a battle? These men who sailed, or indeed walked, off the edge of maps into the harsh places no cartographer ever dared go showed an honourable sort of courage that was not tainted by the panic that purveyed warfare. </p><p> </p><p> The Arctic, be it the pole or the passage, would allow him to show who he really was. That he was not just another war hero. Britain had a surfeit of those, and James knew he had to be <em> more </em> than that to be worth anything at all.</p><p> </p><p> James turned to the list of officers of the expedition, and found himself to be wilfully envious of every one of them. Well, not Ross so much, as, if the scuttlebutt was to be believed, the man had lost his head over a woman. But Crozier seemed a stalwart sort, and James wished he could have seen that feat of sailing <em>HMS</em> <em>Terror </em>between those bergs. What daring! What seamanship! What an example of the steely composure and calm duty expected of an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy!</p><p> </p><p> He opened the pages he had been reading, letting his eyes flick over the dauntless, determined actions contained there. He wished some of that for himself before he settled down for William's sake and married whomever Elizabeth found was suitable for him. He wanted to live that freely, just once, and, despite the sore places in his chest where the bullet had ripped through him, was heedless of what the price for that might be.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>(James was not jealous at the Admiralty banquet before they left. Sir John was paternal and proud, showing off <em> Erebus’ </em> collection of gallant officers to all the various gathered <em> sir</em>’<em>s </em> in their finery. Those lieutenants from <em> Terror </em> were receiving attention too, although they were a less dashing set than those on <em> Erebus</em>, while Captain Crozier was only spoken to by Sirs William Parry and James Ross. No one else had deigned to even acknowledge the man, which was wholly beyond James; Crozier had great enough scientific intellect to be made a Fellow of the Royal Society, was a seasoned captain and a brave, <em>bold</em> explorer of the exact same same calibre as Sir James Ross, not to mention the second in command of this great venture of Sir John Barrow’s! All should be wishing to speak to such a man, to hope some of his glory and experience might rub off onto them!</p><p> </p><p> Of course James was aware that he was Irish - the fair red hair amongst the smattering of grey, the broad features on his round face, the lilt of his brogue on the few times they had spoken - but it had never been <em> so </em> apparent as when he was snubbed by all these fine men. And even though they were not friends, and not likely to be close ones judging from those times they had met, James felt the injustice on Crozier’s behalf. For how easily could his birth be held against him in such a way?</p><p> </p><p> He had tried to go and join the group of Ross, Parry and Crozier out of respect for his superior and the explorer, but whispers and firm hands had kept him in ‘fine English company’.)</p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> 2.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>The Queen! God save her!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The Queen!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The boisterous cheers and hurrahs of the men echoed through <em> Erebus </em> and into the Great Cabin. Sir John smiled kindly at the noise, catching every officer’s eye as he picked up his small glass of wine.</p><p> </p><p>"The men have shown us the way, gentlemen," he said, waiting for all to take up their glasses before continuing. "May the Lord our Father bless us with many more years of our most noble sovereign's reign. To the Queen."</p><p> </p><p> All present toasted Her Majesty, then Fairholme raised his glass and wished good health to Prince Albert, which they all drank to. Some, James noticed, more deeply than others, and he doubted it was due to any particular loyalty to the prince.</p><p> </p><p> It was the eighth anniversary of the queen’s coronation, and the men had been allowed the traditional double grog ration and a fine meal of the tinned foods for the occasion (and sounded to be having a fine time of it), while Sir John was hosting the officers from both ships at his own finely stocked table.</p><p> </p><p> They were all milling about the great cabin waiting for Mr Hoar to announce dinner, much as they would be if this were a fine banquet in a grand house, only they were sorely lacking in ladies to have refined, intelligent conversations with. </p><p> </p><p> James had sat himself on one of the benches below the wide windows of the Great Cabin, facing away from the great brightness of the cold white sun reflecting off the dark blue waters. Lieutenant Irving was sitting next to him, Jacko climbing all over him like she always did, while Fairholme stood next them, trying valiantly to engage Irving in a conversation about watercolours despite neither of them knowing a damned thing about art. </p><p> </p><p> It was painful to listen to, but this occasion did not call for such uncharitable thoughts - and Sir John never countenanced anything but kindness towards their subordinates - so James smiled in the appropriate places and commented where it was polite. He let his gaze take a turn about the cabin, to the bookshelf in the far corner where Sir John was speaking merrily to messers Reid and Blanky, to where Dundy and Hodgson were stood by the table talking one another’s ear off about something or other, and then on to Crozier.</p><p> </p><p> He was not looking quite so soaked today. He might have managed to exercise some restraint for the occasion, but James thought it much more likely that it was only his lack of dour sourness that made him seem more sober. In fact, he looked quite animated where he was sat by the brazier, half turned away from the room, while conversing with Lieutenant Gore.</p><p> </p><p> Graham was an <em> immensely </em> likeable fellow, possessing the very sweetest of tempers that put even Sir John to shame, and had a deep practical knowledge of these Arctic places thanks to George Back in '37. Which was most likely why he was the only officer of the wardroom for whom Crozier did not have a proud distaste for.</p><p> </p><p>“... and of course the capturing of the light is dratted difficult,” Fairholme was saying. “It’s really not for figures, or at least they are beyond me.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is all practice my fine fellow,” James said, glancing at Irving before looking up at Fairholme who was the sort of man who struggled to sit still long enough to write a report, let alone paint anything. “I daresay no master reached their greatness without a good deal of it. You should have plenty of time to apply yourself this winter, eh.”</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed,” Irving agreed, giving Fairholme a slightly teasing smile. “You should not have the time to complain of boredom now you know what you must work to improve. The Almighty has given you the iced in months for this reason.”</p><p> </p><p> James raised an eyebrow at Fairholme who shot them both a grumbling look, his epaulettes catching the lamplight as he shifted on his feet before steering the conversation to his favoured topic of narwhals, which Irving joined with a fervour for the Creator’s design.</p><p> </p><p> James sipped his hock, attention slowly drawn back across the brightly lit cabin to where Crozier was speaking to Graham, showing the most enthusiasm James had seen from him since England.</p><p> </p><p> Some days he thawed a little, bringing Sir John a genuine sense of contentment, and aboard his own ship he seemed to have cultivated enough respect amongst his own officers. Yet even so the man remained unpleasant in James’ opinion; a lushington and a cynic and, worst of all, a disappointment.</p><p> </p><p> He showed no intrepid spirit when it came to the islands and waters of this place, demanding caution at every turn like a harried governess, and showed not one ounce of interest or enjoyment for the magnetic and geographic work they shared - on the rare occasion that he <em>lowered</em> himself to talk to James, of course.</p><p> </p><p> It was true that James had allowed himself to get wrapped up in the sense of adventure the Polar regions promised. The prospect, and then the reality, of seeing icebergs had brought him a childish sort of wonder that had gradually faded with time and a growing familiarity with all the sorts of ice chunks this place threw up. Maybe familiarity had done the same with Crozier. The man had always been quiet and retiring in his manner, which were not things to be held against a fellow; great men might be shy and perfectly pleasant, especially after the strain the Antarctic regions had taken on Sir James Ross and therefore Crozier also. But the great captain and scientist was turning out to be rather tiresome in his manner.</p><p> </p><p> James admired the man for what he had been, but a drunk was not a sound leader. It made Crozier sullen and pettish. He had watched James sail <em> Erebus </em> the wrong way through Disko Bay, a place he knew well, when one signal, one guiding motion of his more experienced hand might have saved a day’s sailing and James from being humiliated in front of the whole expedition. A thing that still smarted a year later.</p><p> </p><p> Crozier smiled at something Graham said, broad and disarming in a charming, gap-toothed way, and James felt his mood take a turn towards irritability. James was enough for everyone else to be on good terms with, he had always got on well with more people than he did not, so what was it that made Crozier hate him so. For he did hate him - despite what Sir John said James could see clear as day that the man found him lacking, especially in comparison to <em> lieutenant Gore,</em> and it made James feel as much of a fraud as he knew himself to be. </p><p> </p><p> Graham was a fine man, but no better than he. Yes, the blood in James’ veins was bastard Portuguese, but it came from as fine a stock as any man in this room. As <em>Crozier’s</em>, James thought as he drained his glass, who was wasting it all on drink and pride.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p> (He was not jealous when Sir John died. He would never have coveted nor resented Crozier his elevated position, not when he feared command eventually slipping out of the drunk’s grip and into his own hands.</p><p> </p><p> Crozier had of course been soused at Sir John’s funeral, slurring Sir John’s words and voice cracking with drink rather than emotion. James had never truly hated anyone before, but in that moment he had despised Crozier, truly and utterly, for his weakness, and for how he lacked any sense of self control or propriety, or <em> duty</em>. </p><p> </p><p> No, James held no jealousy for Crozier in that moment. Only contempt.)</p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> 3.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> James grimaced as the permanent stitch in his side stabbed at him when he jerked upright from dozing at his work, the wince making him hiss in pain as it pulled at his tender scalp.</p><p> </p><p> He touched his hairline as gently as he could, no longer finding much relief when his fingers came away unbloodied. Yesterday he had been forced to call Bridgens from sickbay to help unstick his welsh wig from his forehead, so clogged had the wool become with his dried blood. Today seemed one of his better days for bleeding from odd places, yet on some it was such a horror that James feared he would run out of the stuff before they began the walk out.</p><p> </p><p> He had done everything right; drunk the measures of lemon juice Mr Goodsir would dish out, partook of the pickled vegetables, ate the unpleasant tinned foods as often as the Admiralty had prescribed they should, and he had still contracted scurvy. </p><p> </p><p>  James was not its sole victim of course, it never only struck one man aboard a ship, but from the way Bridgens had looked at him yesterday James thought he might be one of the worse cases he had yet seen. Most men were suffering in some manner, the majority physically, some emotionally, with only a few still appearing hale - Crozier being chief amongst that dwindling number.</p><p> </p><p> After drying out the man had the bad form to <em> improve </em> in health and outlook by the day, regaining his strength just as quickly as James seemed to be losing his.</p><p> </p><p> Crozier had, from what Doctor MacDonald  - God rest his soul - had told James, risked death to clear the drink from his system. And the pale, perspiring, slighty dazed fellow who had turned up at that damned Carnivale with Jopson in tow indeed looked like a man who had struggled greatly over the past two weeks. Pulling himself out of his own hell and into the much larger one at hand.</p><p> </p><p> James pressed his sleeve to his face a moment, letting the smell of old wool that had become damp one too many times banish that lingering stink of wood smoke and cooking meat that tingled constantly at his nose. </p><p> </p><p> How Francis could have drunk himself into moroseness and inactivity and now be in such a good state - clear eyed and neat, a hearty colour in his face as he went about from <em> Terror </em> to <em> Erebus </em> checking progress with a good humour, and not bleeding from any place upon him- was almost insulting. No, it <em> was </em> insulting. James was seventeen years younger than the man, was known for his good health and athleticism, and here he was the one dying!</p><p> </p><p> James was not sure of the preservative effects of whisky, but maybe the damned stuff had pickled Crozier enough that he had emerged from its depths the man he had been nine years ago. That was a most mean-spirited thing to think, born of the discomfort of James' own diminished state, and he sighed deeply as he gingerly sat back in his chair.</p><p> </p><p> He was glad more than he was grudging, if truth be told. He would rather have Francis well and sure of himself than have his own fine health, as James had come to know that even with his full faculties he could not lead them out of here alone. Scurrying five hundred miles from the Euphrates to Damascus with good old Seyd Ali and the odd camel and brigand for company was as far removed from this as sand was from ice. </p><p> </p><p> James had done his best, but knew he would always be found wanting as this land was nothing but hostility to him; there was no wonder here anymore, no more noble majesty, just blood and ash. How anyone could come back to this place willingly, again and again, was beyond James - and he would never understand how anyone could do it for a woman who thought themselves too grand to marry them. </p><p> </p><p> But that was not his concern. James realised that his dip pen was dripping ink on to his notebook and he dropped it back into its ink well. What he should be concerned about was whether they had truly regained the brave captain who had been in that damned Admiralty pamphlet that had so lit James' imagination, and if Francis could do the same now; drag them from the inevitable closing of the jaws of death and leave James suitably breathless.</p><p> </p><p> A distant exclamation in Dundy’s deep voice drew his wandering thoughts back to the dull wooden cabin that was both prison and refuge, and when he glanced over at the doorway James was surprised to find Bridgens there, standing closer than he usually ventured before he had gained James’ attention.</p><p> </p><p>"Dinner, sir?"</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes, very good," James muttered, scratching at the faint stubble on his jaw as he pushed back from the table. "Is Dundy raring to go?"</p><p> </p><p>"...dinner with Captain Crozier, sir?" Bridgens said gently, doing a rather bad job at keeping the concern from his gaze. "He has just arrived from <em> Terror </em>."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh," James sighed. He looked down at himself and began trying to neaten his cravat as he struggled to recall this appointment. It was a Weds - no - a Friday, which was when James usually crossed to <em> Terror </em> for the final command meeting before divine service on Sunday. The change must have been made over the past few days, but James could not quite recall it. There were so many monotonous things to do, with only a cheerful comment from Dundy or a surprisingly stimulating conversation with Francis to break it all up, and things often slid together or disappeared altogether from his thoughts. "It must have slipped my mind… " </p><p> </p><p> Bridgens nodded, glancing down on the crumpled ends of James’ cravat. He stood, leaning back on the table as Bridgens stepped over to undo the rumpled cravat, shake it out, and then re-tie it with quick efficiency. "You used to have to chase me about the <em> Clio </em> to stop me doing horrid things to my uniform," James smiled, tipping his chin up to let the man work. "And now you have me well trained."</p><p> </p><p>"Stewards learn to have a knack with officers, sir," Bridgens said neatly, a spark of amusement in his eye that made James smile.</p><p> </p><p> The creases were brushed out of his waistcoat, the garment roomier than it had been a few weeks before but that was to be expected with the cut in rations, and was declared fit for company with a firm nod. “You needn’t come and do this you know, with the work you have in sickbay.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is not such a large addition to my duty, sir,” Bridgens replied carefully, and James almost said something about the luxury of he and Dundy having a steward each these days. It would have been a very poor joke indeed, and James turned to shuffle his notebooks and papers into some semblance of order as Bridgens went to let Francis in.</p><p> </p><p> Instead of his commander, in loped a shaggy black form that had James smiling without even realising it. He dropped into a crouch to run his fingers through the dog’s wonderfully warm fur as he was subjected to a rather slobbery hello. “Good to see you, Nep old boy. Come to give me an ice report, eh?”</p><p> </p><p> Neptune went about in a circle, his vast wagging tail almost catching James in the face, before a cold nose was once again pressed against his face. </p><p> </p><p> James gave him one last scratch under the chin before he stood to welcome Francis who smiled at James as if he had never met the sight of him with a grimace. He was bright eyed and had a flush of good health about him from the brisk weather, no doubt; the only sign of wear on him was the slight favouring of his right side which was often brought on by a walk through the ice fields, and James could not rightly say when he had first noticed that about him. </p><p> </p><p>“It is almost a pleasant afternoon,” Francis said breezily as he stepped into the great cabin. “So I thought I’d let Neptune stretch his legs and come to say hello. He’s already been made a terrible fuss of by Le Vesconte.”</p><p> </p><p> “He’s always a most welcome guest,” James said, watching Neptune go over to sniff at Francis’ hand before coming back to him, slotting his great head under James’ palm to demand another scratch. “As are you of course, although I admit I had forgotten all about dinner.”</p><p> </p><p> Something passed over Francis’ face, but it cleared quickly as he strode over to the table to glance down at the paper lying on top of one of the never ending piles of lists. “Should I have left my calling card so you would know to expect company?” </p><p> </p><p> A few months ago that would have been a snide remark, but now Crozier’s voice was light and his smile genuine, his eyes so very blue in the shockingly bright daylight. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I shall forgive you, as they must surely all be packed up by now to hand out to the Netsilik.” </p><p> </p><p> Francis shook his head and laughed gently, and James felt a strangely embarrassing sort of pleasure at having caused the sound.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>(When Morfin had himself shot. When Mr Collins slipped into madness. When men were ripped apart by a beast and Irving and Mr Farr were ripped apart by a man, when the Inuit family were killed, when Mr Goodsir disappeared, James did not not know how he could have given such a petty thing as jealousy any room in his thoughts or feelings. </p><p> </p><p> When he collapsed, when the leg that he had broken in ‘36 failed from under him, when he faced the prospect of the scar upon that bone falling away like the ones upon his flesh. When he had looked up into the stony, forced cheerfulness in Francis’ wide, scared eyes, James had pitied him his robust health that might have him surviving them all.)</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> 4.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> Captain Bird laughed freely, arms crossed over his narrow chest and cap pushed back rather rakishly on his greying chestnut hair. He was a good humoured sort, more free with it than Sir James Ross who had a permanent air of decorum about him even while being obviously humorous, despite the muffler wrapped about his face to defend against the wind - that James thought was not all that frozen. But then, there was a reason why he had to be told to wear mittens over his gloves when on deck, and was unable to feel when the brazier was burning too hot when he sat too close.</p><p> </p><p> Despite all the food and lemon juice he was being plied with everything was rather dull still, sensation and thoughts muffled and difficult to keep hold of, and a sense of bleakness still burrowed down deep beneath his sternum. James was not good company anymore, so it was no surprise that Francis would rather be with those true, long standing friends of his than standing about on deck with James. </p><p> </p><p> Even Dundy had abandoned him today, declaring that he would rather suffocate in the hothouse atmosphere below decks than “<em>look at one more ugly great lump of useless, intolerable Ice. I hope the lot of it melts</em>!” - which James sympathised with greatly, if he were honest.</p><p> </p><p> James turned away from the group on the quarterdeck and moved clear of the hatch, looking down towards the proudly jutting bowsprit of <em> Investigator </em>and the fragile sea ice of Baffin Bay. </p><p> </p><p> Dundy had wept when Bird had announced they had left the passage, as had many men, but James had simply looked at all the wide open ocean between them and home, and found that he could not remember the faces of half of the men that he had let this place swallow up.</p><p> </p><p>  He and Francis had spent four years in one another’s company, three of those hating the sight of one another, and James knew that was not enough to truly count themselves as close, dear friends. The desperation of their situation had drawn the two of them together as comrades in arms, and that was all. James was no great tried and tested explorer; he had failed and been found wanting as he had always been destined to, having to be rescued by men who were been better suited to the task than he would ever be. Had maybe even been born better than him.</p><p> </p><p> James shoved his hands into his armpits as laughter swirled about him again, and he looked down at his boots that had been neatly stitched back together by <em> Investigator’s </em> sailmaker, the black leather chewed up by the hard rocky ground. The deck was even and neat, as was the ship, and the slow progress eastwards made James feel trapped at times, and he could not remember the last time he had laughed.</p><p> </p><p> Francis suffered regrets and nightmares, had lost toes and teeth the same as many men, but he was at home on these ships and with his old friends while James felt as if he no longer fit into his own skin. Even now Francis was talking in an easy, sprightly way that James had never managed to pull from him, not even when he had been able to be erudite and charming. </p><p> </p><p> James had never been a priority to anyone. Not in the truest, most selfish sense. There was always another ideal or desire; another child, a woman, an expectation, an advancement James could help bring or another friend who was <em> better </em> to have. After thirty-six years that was not going to change, and especially not when the sainted Sir James Clarke Ross was about. </p><p> </p><p> The world may be a barren, bland thing to his senses now, but that old fire of bitterness, yet another thing God had damned him with, was burning away quite merrily inside of him. </p><p> </p><p>“James!” His name came barrelling through his brooding, and James looked over his shoulder at Francis who had moved to stand with his back to Ross, hands on his hips as he gave James an expectant look, eyebrows disappearing under the peak of his cap.</p><p> </p><p> James knew he was being very slow, but could not discern what was needed of him, nor what orders he was being given as Francis motioned at him with a wave of his hand. He made to go to him, but hesitated, and Francis cocked his head as they regarded one another across the busy deck. </p><p> </p><p> Francis shook his head rather suddenly, and made his way towards James, moving through the crew with the ease and authority of a captain to come to James’ side. </p><p> </p><p>“Is all well with you, James?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” James lied quietly. “I find myself a little fretful, is all.”</p><p> </p><p> “I recall a foolish old captain who would rather be lonely and unhappy than have company and the chance of some cheer, and I do not wish that route for you,” Francis said lightly, and James was rather stunned when he took his arm (the left one, the half lame one) and tucked it through his own so Francis could take the weight off James’ weakened leg. “And if you insist on being escorted about the deck, then I shall not be above it,” Francis joked, and James finally felt something keenly as a hot blush rushed over his face while he was lead slowly along the deck. </p><p> </p><p>“We are allowed to be uneasy after what happened,” Francis said kindly as they walked. “No-one here would fail to understand this.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have learnt - that is to say, it is no weakness to be effected by these places, James. Sailors hearts are still fragile, beating things. Not made of hard English oak like so many would have us believe.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you could not have done anything better than you…”</p><p> </p><p>“I - Francis do not,” James grated out, rocking back on his heels as he came to a sudden halt which forced Francis to turn to face him, their arms slipping apart. “I could and I should have done far better than I did. I am inexperienced and proud, and too - too - was overly caught up in ideas of heroic exploration.”</p><p> </p><p>“That does not mean…”</p><p> </p><p> “You were so calm in the Antarctic, Francis. You never put a foot wrong as second in command. And -” James sighed, pressing the back of his hand to his eye out of habit, “- no doubt I would have misjudged the draught or sailed <em> Erebus </em> right into the side of an iceberg rather than keep my head about me like you did in the midst of all that chaos and panic.”</p><p> </p><p> It took a moment for James to realise that Francis was surprised by what he had said. He stared up at James for slightly too long, confused bashfulness flitting across his face, his eyes just starting to soften as he looked down sharply, half turning to face the clear open ocean.</p><p> </p><p> Francis reached out to touch the gunwale, then pulled his gloved hand away as if he was going to tuck it into the small of his back, before finally let his palm rest on the fir planking of <em> Investigators </em> gunwale. “I must tell you that I do not remember that at all, James,” he said quietly. “I was so terrified in that moment that I could do nothing else than what I did out of an instinct to survive, you understand.” He shot James a reserved smile. “Someone had to tell me that I had sailed <em> Terror </em> between those bergs, as I had no idea how we had come to be on the other side of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Truly?” James stepped closer, half disbelieving what he was being told yet hearing the truth of it. Chinkiang was a blur to him, his great gilded tale of being shot made up from half remembered things and what he had been told by those who had been with him - mixed up with those quips that had always drawn a laugh or two from his audience. James had never expected that Francis' great feat of seamanship and bravery, the thing that had so lit his imagination, to have been conducted in the same frightened, panic driven manner that had clouded every brave thing he had ever done. </p><p> </p><p> “Yes, truly. Everything between the great wave throwing <em> Erebus </em> and <em> Terror </em> together and finding myself clear is a blank to me. I did not even think about Ross until I saw <em> Erebus </em> emerge behind us.” He looked to James’ bad arm, then up to his face again. “Our hands shook for about six months after. The Admiralty never published that.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” James agreed quietly, feeling naïve and lacking in Francis' presence once again.</p><p> </p><p>“I thank you for thinking so highly of that action, James. But know that it was the most terrifying moment of my life. Until rather recently, that is,” Francis hesitated a moment then turned towards James, the comforting weight of his hand coming to rest on James’ arm. “You kept your head about you for every moment of the past three years. You did not panic or despair once, James - not even when scurvy laid you so low, and I have envied you for it,” he said with a shy smile. “I once thought you were a cold unfeeling git, but I have come to respect it. As I respect <em> you </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” James breathed, swallowing hard against something that wasn't shame or envy or thick bloody bile rising up in his chest. Something warm, and gentle.</p><p> </p><p> He summoned a quick smile, ducking his face down into his collar as he let Francis support him while they continued their walk down towards the homeward pointing bow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>(On the return home, a blank part of the only chart that had survived the trek south was found, by the head cartographer in Greenwich, to have been filled in. After taking so many lives, the Northwest Passage was now mapped. Who had done it could not be discovered as the man had either died or, very wisely, did not want to suffer the fame that was now rudely thrown upon Francis. </p><p> </p><p> James would have been jealous of it all, once; would have taken Francis’ insistence that he himself had not finally discovered that holy grail as showy false modesty. He would have held up his acceptance of a knighthood as proof of that, instead of seeing how a man such as Francis would have been ripped to pieces for snubbing the queen so. Would have allowed his much more popular and acceptable name to be added to the discovery even though he had not been worthy of it either. </p><p> </p><p> Now, whenever he looked upon the map of the completed passage he shook down to his bones. And whenever he looked at Francis he saw the weight of every lost soul hanging about his neck.)</p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p> <strong>5.</strong></p><p> </p><p>The lack of chaperone was indeed an act of daring, even for a lady as bold as Miss Cracroft. She was into her thirties now, almost as old as James had been when he had departed for the Arctic, but that did not lessen her need for a companion when calling upon two unmarried men. Especially when one had twice asked her to marry him. </p><p> </p><p> She had come to ‘lend Francis a book’, a slim volume about Van Diemen’s Land that she clutched in her dainty hands as her wide blue eyes settled on Francis, and seemed to have great difficulty turning her attention away from him. James did not care if the lady ignored him, but it infuriated him all the same. If she wished to moon over Francis so, then she should have bloody well married the man when he had first asked and saved everyone a lot of strain and hurt!</p><p> </p><p>"It is good of you to visit, Sophy," Francis said to her, his voice pitched so gently that it took on a soft rasp about its edges. </p><p> </p><p>"I thought I might come and repay all those you have made to Aunt Jane in her mourning. As it is always good to have your company Francis," she said with a hesitant smile, then glanced up at James who had not retaken his seat after she had settled her wide, powder blue patterned skirts on the settee. "And of Captain Fitzjames, of course."</p><p> </p><p> James nodded at the condescension, aware of Francis shooting him a look that was too quick for James to catch the meaning of. He received two other <em> looks </em> while the three of them embarked on a strangled bout of small talk, and thought it was rather a cheek that he was being ejected from his rooms because Miss Cracroft had not thought to plan this assignation in advance. </p><p> </p><p> Still, he would not spoil it. Not for Francis at any rate, God knows the man deserved some joy. Even if it might be momentary and scandalous in nature.</p><p> </p><p>“If you will excuse me, Miss Cracroft,” James spoke up at a pause in the conversation, making a point of peering at his pocket watch. “I have an appointment that I must keep, and I am sorry to have to take my leave of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Captain Fitzjames, I am sorry to hear that,” Miss Cracroft said as if she meant it. She held out her gloved hand for James to bow his head over which he did with as much elegance as he always had, throwing Francis a fleeting farewell as he strode from the room without a backwards glance.</p><p> </p><p> The fine doctor that William had paid for had advised James that he needed to keep moving his bad leg lest it seize up and fall to rheumatism, so he had been due a stroll anyway, James thought sharply as he tugged on his thin, spring weight gloves. He would usually go out with Francis for a turn about a park or to peruse a gallery, the man offering his arm and pleasant chatter to distract and cheer James when his leg hurt; but now his talk was being put towards making Miss Cracroft laugh delightfully. The sound bubbled out of the parlour and down the stairs to swirl about James, and he let it chase him from the building and out into the close, choking atmosphere of London. </p><p> </p><p> He strolled through the expanse of Regents Park, keeping out of the way of the landaus full of pretty young ladies rumbling around in all directions, and allowed himself to wallow in how thoroughly bruised he felt. He did not know why he was so wounded; he had no fortune or fine name, in fact he had no name at all, and was imposing in height and masculine in build no matter how elegantly he held it, his scarred skin a world away from the porcelain complexion of that golden haired image of English femininity currently ensconced in his parlour.</p><p> </p><p> It was only right that Francis should marry Miss Cracroft - the lady was eminently suitable, and now Francis had been knighted for that scrap of the globe that was newly mapped he was also <em> suitable</em>. Even though he was still the same old Irish radical they had all shunned in ‘45. </p><p> </p><p> James resolved that, if he returned home to news of an engagement or an understanding, he would be glad. He would do all a friend would do and he would be kind to Miss Cracroft and not resent her delicate femininity. He would visit their home and be charmed by the children, maybe get married himself and be as attentive to his wife as any lady deserved from her husband. Maybe, if his leg continued to improve, he might go off to another war and finally get himself killed, and be suitably mourned as a terrible loss to this, that, and the other. </p><p> </p><p> The bells of St Katharine’s church, the one that James attended when the nightmares came on too strong and he could find no peace either inside or outside of his head, rang out in clear, sweet tones to signal that it was two o’clock.</p><p> </p><p>  He stopped to look up at her soot blackened spire rising up between the burgeoning green trees in the park, leaning on his cane as he considered that the hour he had spent walking and brooding was surely enough time for Francis and Miss Cracroft to have a <em> conversation</em>, no matter how weighty. To leave them alone any longer would only make him a full accomplice in this improper behaviour. That, at least, was what James told himself as he turned for home, weighed down by that nasty, spiteful part of himself that had managed to survive the Arctic when nearly one hundred men had not.</p><p> </p><p> The sunlight creeping in through the stained glass panel above the door lit the hallway in a vivid rainbow of vivid colours, and revealed that Miss Cracroft’s mantle and bonnet were gone, as was Francis' scarf.</p><p> </p><p> James climbed the stairs to the parlour where they had received Miss Cracroft and found it empty, as expected. The book she had brought was carelessly flung upon the side table by the settee, the cushions of which bore clear signs of having been hastily re-arranged. The corner of the carpet turned up as if it had been kicked by someone moving in a hurry.</p><p> </p><p> Something had occurred, and James stood in the middle of the room feeling small and unpleasant as he tried not to think the worst of either Francis or Miss Cracroft. In a penal colony at the edge of the world a lady might disappear off into the forest with a man for half a day and get little attention, all sorts of behaviour seemed to be permitted in the colonies - but this was <em> London</em>, this was his home, and it was simply not done!</p><p> </p><p> Even if his heart were not caught in the middle of this, James would not care for such behaviour, and by the time he heard Francis returning home he had resolved to give him a piece of his mind.</p><p> </p><p> He stepped onto the landing as Francis mounted the stairs, too worked up to stand waiting in the parlour in a brooding silence, and found a man who looked neither happy nor hurt, without the twinkle in his eye that James might expect from a man who had indulged in an <em> intimacy </em>. </p><p> </p><p> His expressive mouth was set, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, eyes hard with the sort of resolve that James had come to know very well over the past years. His dark coat and unfussily tied cravat were as neat as ever, bearing no sign of hurried re-dressing; only his hair was in any disorder, ruffled as if fingers had been run through it, and James felt his resentful rebuke turn cold and heavy on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry about that James,” Francis said as he gave him a small smile of greeting. “Miss Cracroft departed about a half an hour after you left, so thank you for clearing out like you did."</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” James breathed, failing to move when Francis tried to step past him to get into the parlour. “I hope - that is, I hope it was not for any ill reason?”</p><p> </p><p>"She did not find what she thought she might.”</p><p> </p><p> James was not entirely sure what that meant, and glanced over his shoulder at the untidy settee before looking back to Francis. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes,” Francis said, then cleared his throat. “That also."</p><p> </p><p>"I say -" James blustered, feeling his face heat as he finally moved aside to let Francis pass. "I would have rebuked you for such a thing Francis. Really." James closed the door behind him, watching as Francis paused to lay his fingers upon Miss Cracroft's book, adjusting it to lay more neatly upon the table before continuing to make his way across the room. “The lady is compelling I suppose, but it is not the thing!”</p><p> </p><p>“The lady is very compelling,” Francis agreed, raising his eyebrow as he gave James a direct look which made him feel very young and very silly. “But I have found my fascination wandering.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wandering?" James asked, going to lean in a casual manner against the sideboard so he was facing Francis, resting his palms against the edge as he crossed his legs at the ankles. "To what? Or indeed why, might I ask?”</p><p> </p><p>"I made a choice - very recently - which might widely be deemed a very foolish one,” Francis' said, voice gentle but his tone firm as he placed his fist upon his hip, resting his other hand on the back of the chair by the tiled fireplace "It is done now though, so I would rather get this over with than spend more interminable months skirting around it."</p><p> </p><p> James nodded, putting great effort into keeping his expression neutral as something peculiar happened in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>"It seems as if I am cursed to be contrary in these matters. When I was most unsuitable, in more ways than just my station, I would not see it, and now I am finally deemed acceptable enough to marry I do not care to be. Or rather, I cannot, in good conscience,” Francis sighed, tugging down on the bottom of his waistcoat as he dropped down into the chair. "Not when a part of me will always be attached to you. I do not know if that was a sound reason to turn Miss Cracroft down. <em> In all ways,</em>“ he glanced at James who blushed furiously. “But all sense has been lost to the passage, and I seem to have lost a great deal of my reason to you.”</p><p> </p><p>James swayed, feeling much like when the bow of a ship crashes down after cresting a great wave and icy waters soaked you to the skin.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p> Francis’ expression pinched, and he curled his hands together in his lap as he tipped his chin up defensively. “I am afraid so, yes.”</p><p> </p><p> James could do little else than blink dumbly at him for a moment, taking a deep breath and giving himself a shake as his heart suddenly stuttered almost painfully in his chest.</p><p> </p><p> Before he had met the man James had been hopelessly awed and envious of him. Despising him had not changed that, and even when he loved Francis the feeling was made sinful in its grasping, covetous nature. It was not the gentle, affirming swells of warm feelings that poetry and art told him love should be; James thought it unpleasant and ungentlemanly, and he did not know how Francis could have come to care for such a wretch as he.</p><p> </p><p>"I do not think I have ever been entirely reasonable in regards to you," James straightened from his insouciant lean as Francis’ expression turned from defensive to uncertain. "I do not have the first idea what any of this entails, you know. C-,” he waved his hand through the air nervously, “ - courting and all that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I -” Francis blinked at him, surprise obvious on his face before he schooled it away. “I imagine it differs not that greatly from how it is with a woman in most aspects, apart from the necessary secrecy… ” </p><p> </p><p>“Francis,” James sighed, feeling shame curl in his gut. “I would not know anything about that either. I have avoided all romances and had no sweethearts or things like that, for - how could I when I would have to admit everything to them about my <em> lack </em> of family...”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>James</em>,” Francis said softly, and James crossed the room to kneel at his side, ignoring the way his leg protested on the way down.</p><p> </p><p>“Do not pity me for that, I could not bear it. Not when you are being more brave than I would ever dare to be,” James whispered, clutching at the sleeve of Francis’ coat as he did not presume to reach out and take his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“I would never,” Francis said with aching sincerity, finding James’ hand and taking it in a firm grip. “Are you all right, James?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” James said after a moment. “Would… would you say my name again.”</p><p> </p><p> Francis looked surprised, a delicate pink flush spreading over his weather worn skin. “<em>James</em>,” he spoke softly, almost shyly, yet Francis still managed to elevate his hurried afterthought of name into something meaningful and dear.</p><p> </p><p> James bent over their joined hands to rest his forehead upon them, squeezing Francis’ fingers tightly as he tried to banish the wetness from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>(He was horribly envious of every man or woman who had kissed or put their hands on Francis before him. Of course he was. But with every soft word or trip to the opera or dinner or gentle kiss (and not so gentle kiss, and purposeful, questing hands mapping every inch of his waist and thighs), James found himself caring less and less until he could not give a fig about any of them.)</p><p> </p><p>* <strong>*</strong> *</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> +1</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve gone mad, Francis!”</p><p> </p><p>“No one will see.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“We are brazenly out in the open, Fra- " a peal of laughter sounded from the open doors of the house, Francis only taking any notice because James’ head whipped around towards the source of it. “Francis! This is tempting fate!”</p><p> </p><p> Francis looked about at the pretty bushes surrounding them, their flowers filling the night air with a smooth, decadent scent that Francis had always associated with the east despite never having ventured that way (and more recently with James’ soft hair and even softer skin), then up into the lush greenery of the tree he had pushed James against, the leaves rustling in the cool night air, before meeting James’ wide eyes. "We are hidden well enough."</p><p> </p><p>"We are in a <em> garden </em> for - the bloody <em> Barrow's </em> garden<em>. </em>Francis!"</p><p> </p><p>"I should be even gladder if it were <em> Boyd's</em>.”</p><p><br/>
 James's eyes widened further, gaze skittering about as a dark flush spread up from his immaculate collar when Francis pressed his hand to the front of his trousers. "Unfounded jealousy is not becoming!" he snapped like a maiden aunt, and Francis would have been amused by how fussy James could be at times like this if he were not in something of a mood.</p><p> </p><p> Francis would not have called anything about this situation <em> unfounded</em>. James was a popular man with many close friends who were as young and boisterous as he could sometimes still be, and all clear in their affection for one another. However <em> that man </em> had been standing too close and been overly solicitous in his keeping of James in champagne and sickly sweet punch all evening, and had not been as subtle as he thought when he had found occasion to mention his knowledge of just where James was most the ticklish (the inside of his elbow, the back of his knee, the base of his long, elegant neck).</p><p> </p><p>"I find it wholly justified," Francis said smoothly as he rubbed at James' cock. "The cad stood far too close and was far too self satisfied, and banded about those things as if it was nothing to know them."</p><p> </p><p> It was ridiculous thing to get so riled up about. John Boyd had not been trusted with all the painful, fragile parts of James like Francis had, the things that truly mattered. Francis understood the value of every part of James he had been allowed to know, yet Boyd treated his <em> knowledge </em> of James so lightly. They had been young on Malta together, in the time before James had locked himself up so tightly, and Francis could not fail to be jealous that the man had known James when he was freer in himself and in his cares. </p><p> </p><p> He was James' lover after all, and although that may not count for much in the wider world Francis thought it might excuse this ludicrous act of petty, masculine possessiveness.</p><p> </p><p>"You - oh," James’s voice had dropped into an even lower register, his eyes now fixed on Francis’ face as his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. "You are sailing far too close to the wind Francis, this is… <em> we are outdoors!</em>"</p><p> </p><p> Francis felt a shudder run though James when he pushed against him, could feel his grip tighten on Francis’ lapel when he pressed his lips to the hinge of James’ jaw, then to the scant strip of skin above his collar. “The first time I was intimate with Miss Cracroft was outdoors.”</p><p> </p><p> Francis had always liked that caustic edge James had to him, and it showed itself in the curl of his lip when James growled, “Damn you,” and slid his fingers into Francis’ hair, pulling his head back so he could give him a hard, biting kiss. "Have your way then, by God."</p><p> </p><p> Francis smiled, which only made James kiss him harder, and set to work opening James’ trousers, nipping at his bottom lip before stepping away and getting not so gracefully to his knees.</p><p> </p><p> James made a strangled sound, immediately fisting his hands into the shoulders of Francis’ coat. “What are you doing! Your trousers - everyone will <em> see the dirt.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You dropped a cufflink,” Francis explained as he took James’ long, straight prick in hand, stroking it until it twitched against his palm. “And I helped you look for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“No-one is going to believe that!” James’ whispered, his voice becoming rather high pitched as his hips rocked up into Francis’ fist.</p><p> </p><p>“No-one is going to believe that I - ill tempered Irishman that I am - would be the one on my knees for such a lovely man as you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Christ have mercy," James hiccuped as he let his head drop back against the tree, taking one hand from Francis’s shoulder to stifle his sounds as Francis put his mouth on him.</p><p> </p><p> James bucked and twisted, feet scrabbling against the dirt like he had never had this done for him before. Francis placed a hand on his hip to steady him, letting it smooth down to rest on James' thigh which was trembling like a skittish colt. He almost pulled away, concerned at the heightened state James was in, but fingers were in his hair, grasping just a little too tightly as James groaned above him.</p><p> </p><p> It was not a drawn out thing, not that Francis had expected it to be what with the danger of the circumstance and how excitable James had become. He whimpered and cursed softly into his sleeve whenever Francis took him as deep as he could, his breathing coming hard and loud when he used his tongue on him, almost crying out as he writhed when Francis pressed his fingers to the back of his knee to prove a point.</p><p> </p><p>  A desperate flutter of fingers over his shoulders, as light as a butterfly going about her business, and a roll of James's hips was his warning that James was reaching his peak and Francis pulled away, moving to suck a kiss to his hip as he worked James until he spilled with a muffled grunt.</p><p> </p><p> Francis continued to lay soft kisses up over the line of James's hip bone and over to the soft trail of dark hair on his abdomen, smiling at the gentle hands that were absentmindedly putting his hair back in order. </p><p> </p><p> The handkerchief from James’ inside pocket cleaned them both, and Francis put James back to his pristine neatness then hauled himself to his feet, brushing the traces of soil from his knees before looking at James. He was still leaning heavily against the tree, a flush on his face that was dark enough to almost be unattractive - but only almost. It matched his scowl which was quite severe, and he pushed himself upright to deliver a sharp smack to Francis's arm with the back of his hand.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>You </em> are the cad," he hissed, then took Francis' face in his hands and kissed him breathlessly. "Good Lord, Francis."</p><p> </p><p>"I've surprised you," Francis laughed. </p><p> </p><p>"With your wild habit for outdoor tumbles? Christ, I'd never have guessed such abandon from you." James tugged down the hem of his waistcoat. "Simply wish you'd told me sooner."</p><p> </p><p> Francis bent to pick their glasses up from where he had left them, pressing James's into his palm. "Not been a moment to bring it up, I suppose," Francis mused as he ran his hand down the elegant swoop of James's spine, pressing against the small of his back to guide him out of the bushes.</p><p> </p><p>"I doubt that was the moment either," James huffed, still fussing with his hair and clothes. “But I must say that sort of thing becomes you, you Irish devil.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Well,” Francis muttered as he took his hand back. A long while ago now he had come to realise those genteelly raised English often had a secret fancy for those they perceived as coarse and uncultivated - and although it was no surprise, the prospect of James thinking of him in that way could only sting. “We Irish are <em> known </em> for our roughness.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? Oh no not that. You are a consummate gentleman, Francis,” James said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I meant only… ” he flushed and made a show of inspecting a clematis as they approached the edge of the syrupy pool of candlelight thrown out by the patio doors of the Barrow’s fine house. “Well. It's nice to be made a fuss of every so often.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are always made a fuss of.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Not in that way,” James sighed, reaching out as if to pick something off of Francis’ shoulder and letting his fingers linger. “I shan’t go about making you jealous, as that is no way to behave. But the edge to a person’s feelings can be as pleasant in their reciprocation as the more gentle parts.”</p><p> </p><p>“True,” Francis conceded, using the shadows to give James’ wrist a gentle squeeze before stepping away. “Your reaction to a certain Lady’s name is always very pleasing.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> James’ dark eyes narrowed. That fussy, prim gentleman was pulled back to show the hard, belligerent man he was underneath, and Francis knew that for just bringing that jealousy up he was going to be shoved up against the wall of their bedroom and thoroughly had. </p><p> </p><p>  Which would be a more than tolerable end to the evening, and Francis gave James a comradely pat on the arm as he declared, “Well, now I know you are amenable to it, James,” and strode back up towards the house.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes I did start a very personal fic about The Terror with a Moomins quote - I blame the fact that in his slops James' has the same silhouette as Snufkin, and that when I'm ill I fall back on the Moomins for a much more quaint form of existential dread.</p><p>(also - "the pole or the passage" cracked me up every time I saw it, which is why I left it like that.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>